


evening in the city of chains

by Luridel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luridel/pseuds/Luridel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Editorial cuts, you understand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	evening in the city of chains

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt:
> 
> "I'm Autistic, and I'd just like to see a nice fic featuring an Autistic Hawke. I'd really like it if you could somehow work in a romance (Fenris is my personal favourite LI, but it's no dealbreaker, I don't mind), you don't see many Autistic characters get romances, but I figure it must be kinda hard to write, so again, not a dealbreaker."

"Where does it all go?" asked Varric Tethras, faithful biographer. Hawke was crouched down with a tiny pair of scissors, snipping buttons off a thug's coat.

"What?"

"Your knickknacks. You're like a magpie. Where do you keep it all?"

Hawke rose, swishing the wooden buttons around in the palm of her hand and smiling faintly as they clicked together. "The cellar," she answered absently. The scissors vanished into one of her belt-pouches; the buttons into another. "There's a lot of space down there. I keep my collections all sorted."

Varric shrugged. "Here's a better question. Why do you hoard all this junk?"

The Champion rocked back on her heels, then up onto her toes, balancing. "Would you do a sweep for us, please?" she asked Isabela softly, motioning towards the back half of the warehouse. Isabela held a finger to her lips and winked in acknowledgement, vanishing behind a stack of crates. Only then did Hawke turn to Varric, facing him but looking at a spot a bit above his head. "We had to leave things behind sometimes," she answered, "because of Bethany. And Father. It's nice, um. Having something to myself."

"I think it's sweet," chirped Merril. "But why buttons?"

"They're symmetrical." Hawke reached up with both hands, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I like that. And I like their texture."

"—I don't understand," Cassandra interrupts, leaning well into Varric's personal space. "The texture of buttons? What's all this about?"

The dwarf clears his throat. "Have a little patience, Seeker. Characterization is important."

She huffs. "Of course it is! But why wasn't this in the Tale of the Champion?"

"There are a thousand things I could have written about Hawke." Varric shifts uncomfortably in the chair. "Her little superstitions, her mannerisms, her anxieties, her obsessions. But as with any work of fiction, Seeker, you have to strike a balance between the personal and the epic, the smaller picture and the larger one. Editorial cuts, you understand."

Cassandra nods, moving back again and motioning for him to continue—

"Texture?" asked the faithful dwarf, nonchalantly planting a crossbow bolt in the throat of one of the fallen thugs who had begun to stir.

"Texture!" echoed Merrill. "Like how Hawke won't eat stew or porridge. Isn't that right, Hawke?"

"Exactly." Hawke took a deep breath as she caught Isabela's eye across the room. The pirate flashed her the all-clear sign, and Hawke nodded. "Good work. We're done here, everyone. That's all for today. You're free to go." She pulled herself up onto a sealed crate and sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest and closing her eyes.

Isabela, Merrill, and Varric exchanged looks. Varric was the first to speak up. "I'll sit with her today. Rivaini, Daisy, can you tell the others tonight's game is going to be up in Hightown?"

"Oh, it is getting rather late, isn't it?" Merrill waved. "I'll run down to the Hanged Man and let them know."

"You can have the honors, Kitten." Isabela swept her a gallant bow. "I'll just go fetch us something out of Fenris's cellar."

Hawke mumbled something, head down, as the others left. Varric looked around for a clean place to sit that wasn't taller than his head, found none, and gave up. Resisting the urge to pace, he stood in silence, waiting.

Eventually, Hawke's eyes opened. "Sorry," she mumbled, and then, "Thanks for waiting, Varric." She swung herself down lightly, stretched, and took a deep breath. She looked like she was steeling herself for yet another battle when she asked, "Tonight's Wicked Grace night, isn't it?"

Varric nodded. "I moved the game to your manor. It'll be quieter than the Hanged Man, and you can hide upstairs as much as you want to. No one will mind if you're not feeling up to... Hawke? What's wrong?"

It looked for a moment like there were tears forming in her eyes, but then Hawke shook her head and the image was gone. "Shit, Varric, where would I be without you?" she asked, turning away and hiding her face.

"Lowtown, probably," he said, aiming for humor, and when that failed to get any reaction from her, Varric asked again, quietly, "What's wrong, Hawke?"

"Nothing," she choked out, and was she crying? "It's nothing, I just... thanks."

Varric looked away, letting Hawke regain her composure in private, and nearly jumped when Hawke took his hand, weaving their fingers together.

"C'mon," Hawke said, smile back on her face, "Isabela's going to win a fortune if we don't hurry up and give her some competition."

Despite her semblance of determination, Varric felt her flinch when they stepped from the quiet of the warehouse to the clamor of the docks outside. He squeezed her hand gently and took the lead, guiding her through the streets of Kirkwall.


End file.
